Apocalypse 2: Out of the Fire and Into the Pan
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Sequel to Apocalypse. Sam is back from the alternate universe with a way to save Dean from Hell, but the journey will be harder than he ever imagined. Set after S3, AU. Printed in Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers 3 zine in 2009. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

_This is part two of the Apocalypse trilogy I wrote for Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers fanzine. It appeared in BB3 in 2009. The first story is already posted. _

_NOTE: this is an AU after season 3. Dean went to Hell, Ruby's dead. Sam's on his own._

_I was supposed to post this __last__ summer, but due to unforeseen circumstances, I dropped the ball, and so I'm just posting it now. The GOOD news is, part 3 of the story, which was printed in 2010's Blood Brothers 4, is now available, and will be posted as soon as I get this one up. Some have been asking about this, and I am truly sorry that I made you wait. _

_Geminigrl11, Jeanne Gold, and K Hanna Korossy all helped with the edits. I own nothing, reviews craved._

**SPNSPN**

**Out of the Fire and Into the Pan**

_(The second chapter of the Apocalypse series)_

"_Samuel told me once…whatever he found to get me out of Hell, he found it under a cathedral in New York. That's all he said."_

It had all seemed easy enough at first glance.

There were only fifteen cathedrals in New York State, ten of which were in New York City itself and thus relatively close together. Even with the requirement that they'd all have to be searched, Sam and Bobby working together should have managed it fairly quickly.

It was that optimism that had carried them through the first two and a half weeks after leaving Gatlinburg. They'd scoured the cathedrals in New York City, then the two in Albany, then the ones in Syracuse and Buffalo. A close friend of Bobby's checked distant Ogdensburg, along the Canadian border.

Nothing.

Fifteen cathedrals, and not one clue to what the Dean from that other world had been talking about.

After a particularly difficult day searching the grounds of St. Paul's Cathedral in Buffalo and fighting the continuing symptoms of Sam's multiple concussions, Bobby had put his foot down, insisting they find a motel and regroup. Sam had relented, mainly because he'd been about to fall over by the end of the frustrating exploration.

Sam couldn't give up that easily, though. Sometimes people confused the words "cathedral" and "church," and he had no way of knowing if the other Dean was making the same mistake. Sam would simply have to search the other churches in New York and see if he had any luck on that front. It would simply be a matter of finding a list of churches in the state, then narrowing down the options.

There were 16,899 churches in the state of New York.

Sam blinked at the laptop screen. The listings in the online phone book were better than the 79,526 hits the map site had given him. Granted, that had included several surrounding states up and down the seaboard.

He tried dozens of variations on the search, checked dozens of websites for two days, even narrowed the search further to list only Catholic churches, since many of those were often older and had ties to the Old World…just the kind of place that might hide some secret key to getting into or out of Hell.

There were 2,209 Catholic churches in the state.

Better than 16,899, but still too many. Sam expected to have to search these places as well, and with that many churches, it would take years.

Sam didn't have years. It had already been a year. A year too long.

And he still didn't even know what he was looking for.

A book, a Devil's Gate, an artifact...it could be anything. Sam cursed as he raised a shaky hand, drained his whiskey glass, and slammed it down onto the table. He was getting nowhere, fast. Bobby was calling other friends, making discreet inquiries. The last thing they needed was for some overzealous hunter with a chip on his shoulder trying to prevent them from retrieving someone from the Pit.

Not that Sam would allow anyone to stop him. Not when he was so close.

His experience in the alternate universe—something Sam was still having trouble coming to terms with—had had one benefit. It had reignited his efforts to save Dean. Before seeing the darkness his counterpart had brought to that world and that other, desperate, version of his brother, Sam's research into breaking Dean out of Hell had been at a standstill, and he'd lost hope of ever accomplishing his goal. His Dean's fate seemed to have been just as sealed as that other Dean's he'd met. But when Sam had discovered that Samuel, his counterpart, had found a way to bust Dean out…

Blinking out of his reverie, Sam went back to scanning the Internet results. He knew it was possible to save Dean. He knew the solution was hidden in a New York church. Sam had the most important part of any hunt: A lead.

Everything else would fall into place. It had to.

That wasn't really helping with the research, though. Sam stared unseeingly at the listings, not having any clearer idea of where to begin than he'd had a moment before. Frustration ate at him as he let his eyes wander across the darkened motel room.

_Why the hell didn't I ask Dean where it was? What was I thinking? _

He hadn't been thinking. Sam had been overwhelmed. They'd just barely escaped the attack by Samuel and his demons, Sam had been hit on the head for the third time in a matter of days, and his brother from the other world was all but pushing him through the portal to return here. To this world.

The one where Dean was still in Hell.

_Why didn't I stay there?_

"I thought I told you to rest?"

Sam's head snapped up to find Bobby glowering at him from the doorway of the motel room. He immediately regretted it when a wave of vertigo hit. He'd been dizzy for days; the head injury wasn't healing quickly, and the stress of the past two weeks had probably prolonged the effects.

"You've got a concussion, Sam. A bad one. You should be resting, not burning your eyes out staring at that computer."

Frowning, Sam looked back at the screen. "I'm fine. I need to work on this."

Bobby closed the door and dropped one of the paper bags he was carrying onto the table. "You're not fine. You look like you're gonna fall over any minute."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed back bile. To him, it seemed an even bet which would face-plant him first: the dizziness or the nausea. Neither had been pleasant companions in the weeks since leaving Tennessee. Painkillers had worked at first. Sam had initially insisted on reaching New York as soon as possible, but reality caught up with him fast. He'd barely slept while in that other world. Despite what the clocks and calendars insisted, Sam was five days older than he'd been before the incident in Gatlinburg, not the two he'd been told. Five days with little sleep, three knockouts, and a run-in with an evil Doppelganger, followed by two weeks on the move.

Secretly, he was grateful Bobby had made him stop. If the older man hadn't left his car behind and driven up with Sam, he never would have made it this far. He couldn't bring himself to admit that out loud, though, so he changed the subject. "What's in the bag?"

Bobby didn't answer immediately, prompting Sam to cautiously crack his eyes open. The dizziness spiked almost immediately, and he covertly grabbed the table leg to steady himself. The older hunter either didn't see the motion, or chose to ignore it.

"Some ice packs. Your face still looks like a Rorschach test." Bobby moved to unload another bag in the room's small kitchenette.

Sam smirked as the crusty junk dealer passed. "Don't hold back, Bobby. Tell me what you really think."

"Boy, you don't want to know what I really think," the other man warned. From his tone, he wasn't kidding.

That irked Sam. Bobby still wasn't convinced Sam's experience in Tennessee was anything more than an alcohol-and-concussion-induced hallucination. Suddenly angry, Sam saved the search on the laptop and grabbed one of the ice packs out of the bag.

Reaching the bed was a challenge, mostly because the damned room had started spinning again, like it had the last time Sam had stood up. He settled against the headboard with a grunt of discomfort, and pressed the ice pack against the tender skin of cheek, where the rifle had struck him. The effort dulled his anger a little, and he kept quiet and watched Bobby's movements with one open eye.

Sam's thoughts drifted to the other Dean, the one who'd been so angry and defeated, the one who'd still trusted him even when there'd been no reason to, who had placed Sam's safety above his own and returned him home.

The one who had faced certain death in that other world, and for all Sam knew, was lying dead in a ditch along some empty stretch of road. The thought made Sam wish the whiskey bottle wasn't out of reach on the table.

He reined in his thoughts, trying to focus on his world. The one where Dean still had a chance, even if it was a slim one. But it would help if Sam had an ally who didn't think he was delusional.

"Why don't you believe me, Bobby?" The quiet words slipped out before Sam could stop them. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer but was committed now. Best to just get the conversation over with.

Bobby frowned, pausing only briefly in unloading the groceries he'd bought. "I didn't say I didn't believe you."

Sam huffed silently at the blatant lie. True, Bobby hadn't said it, but every concerned—pitying—sidelong glance he cast in Sam's direction communicated his disbelief clearly enough.

"You should eat something. You want a sandwich? I bought some roast beef," Bobby offered, awkwardly changing the subject.

Sam let him. "Fine."

Bobby handed him his food, then settled with his own at the table. They ate in silence.

Sam couldn't stay angry with the older hunter. He knew his story sounded insane. Like aliens and Bigfoot, alternate universes were the stuff of amateur folly, stories created for science fiction fans. If someone had told Sam three weeks ago they'd been sucked into some parallel world, he would have laughed.

But he was the one with that story, and it wasn't funny.

He chewed absently for a few minutes, then set what was left of the sandwich aside and took the pain pills Bobby had laid on the plate. His head was hurting again, from the injuries or the stress, he wasn't sure.

Sam wordlessly slid down onto the pillow and rolled toward the room's window. Fatigue gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, coercing him to sleep. He hated sleep. Sleep brought dreams. Dreams of two different but equally dead brothers he'd failed and couldn't save. He wished he had more than a vague, flimsy hope to keep the nightmares away.

But then, Sam and hope were long divorced, so he didn't expect much anymore.

**SPNSPN**

_Sam knew he was broken. He wasn't quite sure how or why the small voice in his head that sounded so familiar kept whispering that to him, but he knew it was true. Month after month of pain, cold, fear, and hopelessness had taken their toll. When they came back, he wouldn't resist. He didn't care if he lived or died. He didn't care if anyone ever found him; he was pretty sure no one ever would anyway. _

_It wasn't like there was anyone looking for him. Not after so long. Only one person would, and he was long gone. Suffering in Hell forever because Sam had never been strong enough. Here in his own private hell, Sam was glad for it. Better that Dean never see him like this: sobbing, begging, screaming. That was the extent of his vocabulary, now. _

_Almost six months. Sam's little mental clock, which had served him so well as a hunter, had mercilessly kept track of every passing moment. Every second of every beating, every minute of pain, every hour of starvation he endured, all were tracked by his cruelly infallible sense of time. It told him it had been six months since he'd been brought to this hellhole. _

_And he knew tonight was the night. When they entered his cell, he would be ready. He'd do whatever they wanted: answer any question, perform any task, speak, beg, walk, run, kill, destroy_…anything.

_Except die. They'd never let him do that. _

_When the door cracked open and boots clomped into his small prison, Sam smiled. It was finally time. _

Sam jolted awake, drenched in sweat, a gasp on his lips. He jackknifed off the pillow, only to drop back when the headache hit. His skull felt like it was splitting apart right down the center.

The images of the nightmare stayed with him as he shook himself awake. A small, filthy room, darkness, people who punished him for little or no reason day in and day out. Nothing he was familiar with, yet something felt off about it. Like it was more than just a crazy nightmare.

A vision? Of what? His future…or someone else's?

The sound of sheets rustling made him turn. Bobby lifted his head and looked over from the other bed. "Sam? You all right?"

_No_ seemed to be the only answer that made sense. But Sam wasn't sure what was happening, so he didn't dare risk trying to explain it out loud. Not when Bobby already had doubts about his sanity. He shook his head and wiped sweat from his eyes. "Yeah. Just…need a drink." He smiled weakly, though the other man probably couldn't see it in the dark. The look Sam could just barely make out on his friend's face told him Bobby indeed didn't see the smile. "I'm kidding."

"Funny. You always so entertaining at four in the morning?"

Sam frowned. He didn't know how to answer that. For much of the previous year, he'd been alone at that hour, Jim, Jack, and Jose silent companions. Little by way of conversation. At a loss, he lowered his head back to the pillow. The pain of the dream—vision—receded slowly.

"You sure you're all right?"

He shook his head. The answer was still no to that one. "It was nothing. Go back to sleep, Bobby. Sorry to wake you."

The remaining few hours before sunrise passed slowly. Sam alternated between shutting his eyes and staring blindly at the patterns in the stucco ceiling. It reminded him vaguely of those 3-D posters that had been popular when he was in high school. If he stared long enough, he could just see his brother's face in the shadows.

Dreaming about himself had surprised him. For a year now, he'd had nightmares of Dean: Dean being dragged away. Dean in Hell. Dean blaming him for his failure to save him.

The past few days had brought nightmares of the other Dean, broken by Samuel's cruelty, dying alone in an already dead world. The last thing Sam expected was to see himself in his nightmares, let alone himself broken in captivity.

What did it mean?

Giving up on rest, Sam rose silently and made his way to the bathroom in the early morning gloom. He showered and changed, then quietly found a protein bar to munch on. He sat at the table and turned the laptop screen so the glow wouldn't wake his still-sleeping companion.

_Okay_. Sam drummed his fingers silently on his forearm. _How can I narrow down 2,209 Catholic churches…? _

**SPNSPN**

_The stone walls were rumbling around him, black magic spinning its invisible tendrils all around the room, cracking open the very ground beneath his feet. He could feel the heat blasting up against his legs and chest. _

_A few feet in front of him, a shadowy figure clutched a thick, aged book and uttered incomprehensible chants. _

_Abruptly, an eerie calm fell over the scene. Stillness. Quiet. The calm before a storm. _

_When the last incantation was complete, chaos ensued. Sulfuric fumes shot out of the cracks, preceding a veritable explosion of black, roiling smoke as demons of all sorts poured up into the room. One column of undulating demons carried precious cargo. _

_Dean was dumped at his feet, naked, trembling, drenched in blood. _

_The blindly panicked and contorted face was all he could focus on. _

"_Howdy, Dean." _

_Dean didn't, or couldn't, answer. _

"_Clean him up." _

"Sam!"

Sam's eyes snapped open at the sound of Bobby's panicked voice. He was looking up at the bearded man's face and could see the underside of the table and the ceiling beyond. Sam blinked, trying to get his bearings. His head was killing him. "W-what? How did—?"

Bobby loomed over him, checking Sam's pulse and pupils. "You tell me. I got out of bed and saw you sprawled out under the table."

Sam tried to remember. He'd been…using the laptop. Searching. Then…

A…cave? A book. Demons. _Dean_.

A cave. Or a crude basement. He'd had another vision. _Had to be_.

He tried to push himself up, Bobby gripping his arms when he almost flopped backward. Sam nodded gratefully and let the older man help him into a sitting position. "I, uh…I think it was a vision."

Bobby frowned. "Vision? I thought you weren't having those anymore."

"I wasn't," Sam admitted. "Not until…not until I went through that portal. I had one when I was on the other side." Sam tried hard to ignore how absolutely bug-nuts that sounded. One glance at his friend's face confirmed it. "Don't look at me like that, Bobby."

The older man huffed a laugh. "How—? How am I supposed to look at ya? Do you have any idea how you sound? How crazy that story is? Do you, Sam?"

It was hard to keep the hurt out of his voice. Much easier to let the anger bleed through. "I'm not lying! Damn it, Bobby, I've never lied to you."

"I'm not saying you have," the other hunter shot back, irate. "But, Sam…Jesus. You go off half-cocked, drunk, and hunt down a demon who's dealing with some wild black magic. I find you two days later, knocked out, beat half to hell, and spouting stories about another universe, another Dean. What am I supposed to think?"

"You saw the portal," Sam retorted. He had no other answer. A little faith would have been nice, the benefit of the doubt. Bobby had followed him this far, all the way across New York. Was Sam really asking so much? Was anything too much to ask if it could free Dean from Hell?

"We don't know what that demon was doing."

Sam cursed and climbed to his feet. He had to brace himself against the table to keep his balance, but adrenaline was helping douse the vertigo. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from just cussing the older man out and leaving right there. Sam owed Bobby a moment of mostly civil debate, though, so he took a deep breath before he spoke. "I saw it, Bobby. I got sucked into that thing. I saw the other side."

"Sam, maybe we should get a doctor to check you out. Make sure that concussion of yours is getting better. Then we can—"

"What?" Sam interrupted. "Then we can what? Have a shrink take a look at me? Make sure those blows to my head didn't knock out any screws?"

The older man hesitated.

Sam noted the brief look of doubt that crossed his face and pressed forward. "Why isn't my word enough?"

"You charged in after that demon alone, Sam. You didn't wait for me…."

Sam frowned. "And?"

"How much did you have to drink before you went in? You were working your way toward a four-alarm hangover when I saw you the night before."

_Back to that_. Sam ran his hands over his face in frustration. "What does my drinking or not drinking have to do with anything?"

Bobby cast an incredulous look at him. "It has everything to do with it! These creatures we hunt down, this black magic they can use…it can play with your head enough as it is. You go in half in the bag…there's no telling what that demon or its spells could make you see!"

Trying once more for reason, Sam held up his hands. "Okay, you're right about the drinking. I might not be as clear-headed on hunts as I need to be. I get that. But I know what I experienced wasn't a delusion. Hell, I got knocked out twice with a rifle while I was there. Plus, I was there for almost a week. I couldn't have been dreaming in all that detail."

"You weren't gone a week, Sam. It was only two days."

"It was two days _here_, Bobby!" Sam exclaimed, the logic—or lack thereof—not escaping him, but he had to make his friend understand. "Look, I can't explain that. Just like I can't explain how I was somehow…several years in the future there. I mean, who knows how this stuff works?"

"Sam—"

"Bobby…listen, I know this sounds crazy. It sounds crazy to me and I saw all of it. But…I have a lead on _a way to help Dean_. Isn't that what's important? I've finally got a clue on how I can save him, and I need your help to find it."

"I'd like nothing else than to do that, Sam," Bobby replied wearily. "But this 'lead' you have…the one given to you by your _dead_ brother in an _alternate universe_? Even if I could get past that part of it, the 'clue' is so vague, it's meaningless. _Something_ under a cathedral in New York? We've searched all fifteen of them and came up with zip. Now what? Search every church in the state? That'd take years, kid. A lifetime."

"It's worth it!"

"No. It isn't, Sam."

It was like getting slapped. Sam stood open-mouthed for a moment. "How can you say that?"

"Sam…Dean died so that you—"

"Dean died because I was stupid enough to turn my back on someone who was trying to kill me! He died because I didn't have the guts to finish Jake off when I had the chance!"

"He died," Bobby shouted back, "so that you could have a second chance. Because he valued your life over his—"

"_He was wrong!_ Don't you get that?" Sam exploded, flipping the dinette chair into the wall with enough force to dent the plaster. "He was counting on me to find a way out of the deal! He needed me to save him, and I couldn't! _I owe him everything!_ It doesn't matter how long it takes, I have to save him!"

Bobby shook his head, and Sam saw pity in his eyes. It enflamed his anger even more. Pity wasn't going to help anything. It wasn't going to help Dean.

"He didn't want this for you, son. And you know that. Your brother didn't want you to throw your life away chasing after him. Maybe you could have saved him back then, before his year was up, and maybe not. I hate being the one who has to tell you this, but Dean's been gone a year and it's time to let him go."

That was it, then. Sam stared at his father's friend, unable to think of anything that could break the impasse. Finally, he shook his head. "Well, I can't." He watched Bobby for a moment, meeting the older man's sympathetic gaze with a steely one. Neither could budge. It reminded him faintly of the arguments he'd had as a teenager with his dad. Two immovable, opposing points of view. No compromise. Stubbornness and hurt feelings.

In the end, it was all they ever had.

With a sense of finality, Sam righted the chair he'd thrown and placed himself in front of his laptop. "I'm going to work on this for a while."

Bobby looked like he wanted to say something more but just nodded awkwardly. He gestured toward his cell phone. "I'm gonna…call Wilkerson. See if he can drive my car up from Gatlinburg."

Sam nodded, then turned his attention to the computer screen. There was nothing left to say.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It took Sam the better part of the day to connect the image of cave walls to his list of churches. Really, it all came together much faster than he'd expected.

Catacombs.

A large Catholic church upstate fit the bill. Just a few scant miles from one of the cathedrals they'd checked in Syracuse, Immaculate Heart of Mary in Liverpool, a mid-sized parish that supported a small school, was in the midst of a massive fundraising campaign to pay for a renovation project. The parish was old, built in the early 1800s and progressively added on to over the decades. But the most interesting part was the catacombs beneath the campus.

The church was an intricately detailed copy of an earlier church in Italy. The designers had painstakingly reproduced every aspect of the design, from the stone statues inside the cramped chapel, to the Latin inscriptions along the steps outside...to an exact replica of the catacombs underground.

The selling point, though, was the aerial photograph Sam found in a local newspaper article. The church campus was composed of five buildings—a chapel, a rectory, and three for the school—all arranged at equidistant points around an empty, vaguely circular field.

A perfect pentagram. Just like Samuel Colt's devil's trap in Wyoming.

That was the place; Sam would bet his life on it.

Liverpool was only two-and-a-half hours away. Sam had not driven alone since leaving Tennessee, but the lingering effects of his concussion didn't seem as bad as the morning went on, and even the headache from his vision was fading. Not to mention, Bobby was no longer an option but an obstacle. Sam was on his own.

_Well, not much different than usual, I guess_.

With the information in hand, and a reasonable certainty he'd find what he was looking for, Sam began packing. He covered it, making it look as though he were simply tidying up the room.

Bobby said little; the tension in the room was suffocating. Sam just waited for an opportunity.

Waiting took longer than the computer search. It was six o'clock before Wilkerson arrived with Bobby's Chevelle. Sam passed the time digging up as much information as he could online about Immaculate Heart's history, which wasn't much. He memorized the general layout of the grounds, but wouldn't be able to get the details until he saw the place in person.

Bobby was old friends with Wilkerson, whom Sam had only met once back when he was a kid. The two men talked out by the cars for a while, catching up, until Bobby stuck his head in the door and asked if Sam wanted to come with them and grab dinner.

"Nah, I'm not hungry."

"You sure?" the older hunter asked, visibly concerned.

Sam put on a forced smile that he hoped worked, but honestly, it didn't matter either way. "Yeah, I'll be fine. You go ahead."

He could see the doubt cross his friend's face, but the lie worked. Bobby and Wilkerson left in Bobby's car.

Sam gathered his meager belongings and loaded up the Impala. When he stopped to leave his keycard on the dresser, he paused.

Bobby had taken him and Dean in when their dad had died. Had taken Sam in when Dean had died. It was wrong to just run out on him without so much as a word. The older hunter was trying to help, even if he wasn't seeing the situation the same way as Sam.

He tore off a sheet of motel stationery and scribbled a note: _I'm sorry, Bobby. I can't stop now. Thanks for everything. _

He dropped his room key and enough cash to cover the cost of the room, then walked out.

Dean was waiting for him.

**SPNSPN**

The drive east was quiet. Sam had played alphabetically through Dean's collection of cassette tapes seven times during the past year and was due to put the second Metallica tape in, but he didn't. His mind was too busy rolling over the details of the church, Bobby's words, his Dean's last words, the other Dean's.…

Driving wasn't too stressful, at least, though keeping his eyes focused as the headlights of oncoming cars passed was somewhat difficult. They tended to blur when he moved his head too quickly. Sam compensated by staying in the slow lane and keeping his eyes straight ahead.

That wasn't difficult either. Every time he looked out at the slowly darkening landscape off the highway, his brain flashed back to the desolate world he'd spent the better part of a week driving across. Windblown trees twisted into craggy, burnt, skeletal versions of themselves. Drooping limbs, silhouetted against the sunset, took on the shapes of corpses, hung crucifixion-style, like the ones he'd seen near Clarksville. Thick gray clouds drifting in front of the sinking sun shifted and blackened, moving with sudden purpose, like the demons that had surrounded Dean's camp—

No, it was better to keep his eyes on the truck four car lengths in front of him.

Sam's mind wandered again, and he glanced at his phone. He was in New York now, and he and Bobby had driven right past New Paltz on the way up to Albany. He hadn't spoken to Sarah for more than a year. It had barely occurred to him after everything that had happened, and when he'd changed his phone, he hadn't forwarded the new number to anyone but Bobby.

He caught himself when he reached for the cell; it wasn't the time. What would he even say to her? _I saw you fighting for your life in another universe and wanted to check in?_ _Oh, and we had a son, too_. That was a good way to get hung up on. No, it was better to wait. Anything else right now would be distracting.

Sam held off on filling up the gas tank until he reached Batavia and the needle was about as far into "E" as it could get. He'd been too concerned with putting Buffalo behind him to fill up at the start of the trip. Pulling off the highway, Sam stopped at a brightly lit Citgo station.

The air was cool for May, breezy. A storm was blowing in from the west. Sam grabbed his jacket from the backseat and stepped to the back of the car to unscrew the gas cap. As his eyes drifted over the surroundings, he caught a glimpse of the man standing on the other side of the pumps…and did a double take.

"Dean?" The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and he stepped forward. It can't be… The short-cropped blond hair, the line of the shoulders, the—

"You talking to me?"

Sam blinked. The man at the other pump had turned to face him. He looked nothing like Dean from the front, and he was frowning at Sam the way one would at an escaped mental patient.

"Um…sorry. I'm sorry. You just looked like— Forget it," Sam stammered out, shaking his head and retreating back to the Impala.

The other man went about his business, but not before Sam heard him mutter "nutjob" under his breath.

Ignoring the barb, Sam filled the tank, recapped it, and went into the small convenience store. He'd need coffee if he was going to keep driving. His body craved sleep, even if it was plagued with nightmares, and he found himself slowing down even though it was only after eight o'clock. To stay alert, Sam had kept the window down in the car, despite the evening chill.

The store was cramped inside, served by a single cashier shielded behind Plexiglas. Comforting. Sam made his way back to the coffee machine and was filling the cup when he caught his reflection in the glass of the drink cooler.

_No wonder that guy thought I was crazy_... His hair was all over from having the window down in the car. There were deep bags under his eyes. When he ran a hand through his hair, he realized it was shaking. Sam didn't know why he hadn't noticed that earlier. Balling his hand into a fist to control it, he grabbed the coffee cup and headed to the register. The young cashier eyed him warily but took his money without giving him any grief.

Sam was back on the road in minutes. Traffic was thinning out now that night was falling. He fished the Metallica tape from under the pile of papers in the passenger seat and popped it into the radio. With fewer cars to keep him awake, he was going to need something else, and his brother's music was as good a choice as any.

**SPNSPN**

Immaculate Heart of Mary Church was larger in person than it looked in the newspaper photo.

Sam sat across the street from the main building, sipping at too-hot coffee from a fast food joint down the block. It wasn't helping. It was going to take more than one cheap fast-food cup of caffeine to cure the hangover he was nursing. He'd had a lot of time to kill in the motel the previous night.

Breakfast was a greasy disaster he'd abandoned after a few bites, but Sam wasn't all that hungry anyway. Nausea had bothered him for days after coming back through the portal, and it had more or less destroyed his appetite after that.

Operating hungover on a mostly empty stomach wasn't anything new to him, though, and this particular job would be fairly easy. Scope out the church, get a feel for the layout, find a way into the catacombs, then come back at night and look for some ancient book.

He and Dean had pulled off more complicated jobs in their sleep.

Sam frowned, shaking his head. _Everything goes back to him_... How could Bobby expect him to just let his brother go? His whole life had revolved around Dean, even when Sam was off at Stanford and foolish enough to think it didn't. No one could expect that to change just because of death.

Turning his attention back to the church, he checked his watch: 9:31 a.m. The small school was in session, the parents mostly gone except for one couple that had driven around the corner of the schoolhouse in the direction of the administration office.

To the left of the chapel lay the rectory, and beyond that, the fifth building on the campus, which Sam guessed was some kind of maintenance or generator shop. His casual drive around the block had revealed little else besides a city work crew digging up a water main on the sidewalk alongside that fifth building.

Behind the church, in the center of the quintet of structures, was a large, open field. Sam assumed the old catacombs mentioned in the article would be somewhere below that, right in the center of the disguised devil's trap. Like Colt's huge trap, this one was not readily visible from ground level. In the 1800s when the campus was built, it would have been perfectly disguised. But from whom?

A book that could retrieve someone from Hell would be a powerful tool, and if it opened some sort of doorway into the underworld… In the wrong hands, there was no telling what such power could do. The book was dangerous.

It was also Sam's only lead to save Dean. That overrode all other concerns.

He'd learned about all he could from the outside; it was time to go in and take a look around. Sam climbed out of the Impala, tossing his half-finished coffee into a nearby trashcan. He jogged across the street and tried to look as casual as possible as he approached the front doors of the church.

More than likely, any entrance leading down to the catacombs would not be in the main church. At the very least it would be concealed behind a wall or under the floor, or somewhere else entirely. Still, a cursory search was a good first step, and the church was likely to be deserted that time of day.

While the outside looked bigger than Sam had expected, the inside was more cramped. It had obviously been renovated many times over the years, but the basic brick-and-mortar walls and huge circle-top stained glass windows appeared to be classic Eighteen Century design.

The entrance door opened into a small foyer, separated from the main floor by four steps. The stairs led up to a small section of wooden pews that were divided from the main seating area by a line of ceiling supports. Beyond the larger series of pews was the sanctuary, with the altar and a large carved-wood crucifix. Sam figured the church could seat about 300 people.

Along the walls on both sides and sculpted into the supports between the large stained glass windows, were the Stations of the Cross, which Pastor Jim had showed him and Dean when they were kids. The fourteen carvings depicted the final journey of Christ to the Crucifixion. Sam wasn't Catholic—wasn't anything, really—but Pastor Jim had taught him about a lot of different religions and practices. Sam could pass as almost any denomination if questioned.

As he passed between the stone pillars and entered the main hall of the chapel, he glanced to his right. Against the wall were several wooden doors, apparently leading into traditionally designed, enclosed confessionals. To his left, a set of double doors, and what looked like a stairwell. Sam headed for those.

"Good morning, sir!"

Sam spun in his tracks, startled, hand darting to his concealed handgun. He stopped and covered the motion by thrusting his hand into his jacket pocket when he saw who had addressed him.

A smiling priest with thin, gray hair was approaching from the area behind the altar. "I can always spot a new face," he continued cheerily, extending his hand. "I'm Father McBride, the pastor here."

Hesitantly removing his hand from his pocket, Sam accepted the handshake. The priest's grip was surprisingly strong. "Sam."

"Welcome to Immaculate Heart of Mary's, Sam."

"Thanks," Sam muttered, feeling self-conscious for a reason he couldn't quite pin down. _Oh, yeah, because I'm here to_ steal _something from this nice priest, from his nice church. That's probably it_….

"Are you new in town? I don't think I've seen you around."

Sam nodded too quickly. "Um, yeah. Really new, actually. I'm just settling in." _Damn it, Sam, pull it together! _

"Ah. Are you Catholic?"

"Not…really. I knew a priest…well, a Lutheran."

The older man frowned slightly.

Sam regrouped, finally pulling his mind out of the mud, and put on a congenial smile. The one he and Dean had turned into an art form over the years. "I'm sorry, Father. We, uh…had a family friend, a pastor. He was friends with my father and helped out with my brother and me. Taught us a lot about the Church and religion, but my father was always traveling, so we never practiced. He passed a few years back."

"Who?"

"Sorry?" Sam asked, perplexed.

"Who passed away? Your father or the pastor?"

It was Sam's turn to frown. "Uh, both, actually."

The priest nodded sympathetically.

Sam shook his head, chuckling uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Father. I just met you and…I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

McBride grinned. "It's the clothes. They invoke confession."

Sam laughed. "Fair enough."

"Well," McBride folded his arms in front of him casually, "you said you're new in town. Are you in the market for a good church?"

_Good. Back to the cover story_. Sam was grateful to be on track again. _What the hell is wrong with me? _He glanced around the chapel. "Yeah, actually. Like I said, I'm not Catholic, but there's…something about this place. I think I could find what I'm looking for here."

McBride smiled again. "Well, may I show you around? We've got a small church here, but we're proud of it."

"Sure." Sam nodded, returning the smile. Now they were getting somewhere.

**SPNSPN**

Lying was never a part of the life Sam enjoyed. It was necessary. He was decent at it—so long as he wasn't trying to pass something off on Dean or Bobby or his dad, then he sucked at it—and it got things done. But it was never easy.

Spewing out a twisted mix of truth and fiction to a priest, in God's house…well, Sam felt like he needed a shower. He had to keep reminding himself of his endgame. It was all for Dean. He'd move the Earth with his bare hands for Dean.

Father McBride showed him every inch of the church, visibly proud of his parish. The church was bigger than Sam had guessed from the outside. Besides the main floor, there was a balcony above the back half, and a rather extensive, musty library below, filled with positively ancient school texts and reference books. Sam could swear he remembered a few of them from the smallest, least-funded schools he'd attended growing up.

Sam searched every inch of the library for anything that looked out of place. There was no way to know if an entrance to the catacombs would be obvious or hidden—though Sam bet on hidden—so he discreetly examined every closed door and askew book he saw, but found nothing. Father McBride's curious stares were countered with a story about how he used to spend days on end satisfying his voracious reading habits in Stanford's libraries.

Not everything was a lie.

The tour ended in the priest's small office, off beside the row of confessionals. Sam settled in next to the window as McBride finished a funny story about one of the junior priests and his run-in with some malcontent prankster named Tommy.

"Would you like some water, Sam?"

What he really wanted was a drink, but Sam didn't say that. "Sure."

They sat for a few moments, and Sam had to admit the water helped his thirst; rummaging through those dusty books had left a dry spot in his mouth.

"I feel like I've been talking this whole time, Sam," McBride began, draining his own glass.

Sam smiled but said nothing. He had let the priest go on for a reason.

"I've shown you just about all there is in this part of the campus. School's in session next door, but I can show you around if we stay quiet. Do you have children?"

"Ah, no. But, uh, there's always hope," Sam stuttered. The image of Sarah and little Sammy sprang to the front of his mind suddenly. He couldn't shake it, nor could he help but think of the fate that awaited them both in that demon-conquered world.

"Are you married?"

"No, not yet," Sam replied, deciding to put his errant mind's eye to good use. "But, me and…Sarah have…something special."

_Well, well, you still got the hots for her on your side, too. Who woulda thought? _

Sam squirmed a little in his seat, remembering the conversation and his brother's voice all too well. _Shut up, Dean_. He cleared his throat. "But, I don't want to take up any more of your time—"

"Nonsense! We're always looking for new members, Sam. If I don't persuade you to join our flock then I'm not doing my job. Come on."

McBride led Sam to the back of the office and out a side door. They walked together along the concrete walk, the priest continuing his history lesson while Sam scanned their surroundings for anything that might be an underground entrance. McBride offered little more than Sam already knew.

When Sam tried to turn the conversation onto the subject of the catacombs, McBride's face shifted, so subtly, Sam almost missed it.

"Well…I'm afraid that's getting too much attention. It seems there were plans to recreate the catacombs when the settlers built this place, but they never actually built them. I think the only thing anyone would find down there would be a sewer drain."

It was a struggle for Sam to keep his face neutral. The priest was lying to him. He was certain of it.

"The ground was so unstable that they couldn't even build the church on the spot they picked, so they built it all around the periphery. That's why the campus is laid out the way it is."

And _that_ was a bald-faced lie. Sam could see it all over McBride's face. The priest knew full well why the campus was designed the way it was, and it wasn't because of geology. He plastered on a clueless smile.

They reached the school. After a brief tour, they stopped at a bay window on the second floor overlooking the open field between the five buildings. McBride pointed out the outdoor equipment, and Sam nodded, paying just enough attention to respond when necessary.

"We host a number of community events, in addition to the school's activities. The school's planning committee was looking at that area over there for some newer bleachers."

Sam followed the priest's point with his eyes, toward the far side of the field, past the church, behind the rectory. The empty section of the field was nondescript…except for a small concrete square with what looked like a metal trapdoor. It appeared to be a sewer drain cover with yellow caution tape crisscrossing the top. He blinked. _Is that it?_

"So," Father McBride interrupted his thoughts. "What do you think, Sam? Will we see you on Sunday?"

Sam turned to the priest, a satisfied smile creeping onto his face. "This is a really nice place, Father. I'll definitely be coming back."

**SPNSPN**

_The rough-hewn wall dug into his back as the figure approached. His body was pinned tight, movement impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut as the knife came closer. _

"_Just a little," the voice whispered mockingly. "Scout's Honor. It doesn't require much." _

_ Pain blossomed along the side of his face as the blade slid into the skin above his right eye, spreading down as his attacker drew the knife all the way to his jaw line— _

Sam gasped, jolting upright in the padded armchair. It took a moment for his brain to register the motel surroundings.

"Damn it," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. It was the third time he'd had that dream that afternoon. Every time he closed his eyes, it started again.

His plan, after leaving Father McBride, had been simple enough: go back to his motel room, eat lunch, and grab a few hours of shut-eye before returning to the church that night.

Naturally, that plan went to hell about halfway through. Sam had moved to the chair after tossing restlessly in the bed for a while, but his sleep continued to be plagued with nightmares. First his Dean, then the other Dean. Then that knife, carving into his face, over and over.

The last dream felt more visceral, more real, than the ones about Dean. Sam was beginning to suspect another vision, just for the knife if no other reason. A knife cut, as deep as it seemed, down the right side of his face. Deep enough to leave a noticeable scar. The kind of scar Samuel had sported when Sam saw him in Dean's Wyoming safe house.

Put together with the earlier vision of being tortured by unseen captors…. Was he seeing Samuel's fate? How he went darkside? "Why would I be seeing his future?" Sam asked quietly, addressing no one in particular. His visions had always been glimpses of future events—usually deaths—he sometimes had a chance to prevent. Occasionally, he'd seen his own future. He'd never seen the future of a version of himself from another universe.

_Unless_—

Sam shivered. The realization was more than a little horrifying. He might be seeing his future, not Samuel's. Maybe his fate was still destined to mirror his dark double's. Maybe the future he saw in that other world was unavoidable in this one as well.

"Not a good dream, huh?"

Sam's head snapped up at the voice. His eyes focused on a dark shadow over by the television stand, a figure slouched against the wall. Sam's hand immediately reached for a weapon but found nothing. He spun, searching, but the arsenal he'd planted around the room was gone.

"It's okay, man, relax."

Turning back, it slowly dawned on Sam that he knew that voice. His mind went from alarmed to some mix of shock and terror. "Dean?"

The figure stood, hands out in an unthreatening gesture, and stepped forward. A sliver of moonlight through the closed curtains illuminated his brother's smirking face. "You look like shit, Sam."

Sam's eyes welled up. It wasn't possible. The portal was closed; he'd broken the magic circles that controlled it. He'd watched the vortex collapse, along with any chance he had of reaching that other Dean Winchester. "Dean…how?"

In a flash, Dean was sitting on the bed, right in front of Sam. He hadn't moved, just disappeared and reappeared.

Sam did a double take, trying to flinch back but finding his lower body numb. He couldn't move.

"Really, dude, you look awful. When's the last time you slept?"

A sickening realization began to sink in. This wasn't Dean. It was a hallucination. Sam had had a few during the past year, nights where he'd gotten so drunk, he'd started seeing things: Lilith, Dean, hell hounds. Sam buried his face in his hands. "No, no, no…this…isn't real."

Dean chuckled, slapping Sam's knee playfully. "Well, neither are ghosts, demons, and Hell, right? I mean, it depends who you ask, doesn't it?"

"I'm losing it…."

"You think so?" Dean asked casually, rocking back on the bed. "You think Bobby's right? That you're going nuts?"

"I don't know," Sam moaned miserably. "I don't know, Dean."

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

Looking up sharply, Sam tensed. "Then what—?"

"Well, Dean's in Hell, so I can't be him. And that other guy, he's…well, there's no telling, I guess. He could be dead. But I'm not him either."

Sam shook his head. "I don't understand…."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe I'm _you_. Some…part of your brother he left behind that you can't let go of. You know, some Sci-Fi Channel meets Lifetime crap. Does that make sense to you? I mean, it makes sense to _me_."

Sam was really lost now.

Dean didn't give him a chance to speak. "So tell me, do you think Bobby is right? You go crazy and not tell anybody?"

The reflexive denial died in Sam's throat. He waved his hand helplessly. "I— I don't know. How would I know?"

"I guess you wouldn't," Dean said with a conspiratorial smile, but he quickly sobered. "But I do know you should stop blaming yourself."

"For what?"

Dean leaned forward, all business. "For what happened to me. I know you like to blame yourself, because you're a little masochist, but I made that deal, and I knew you wouldn't be able to break it. And I knew what would happen when I sent you back through that whirlpool thing in Tennessee. It was too late. You couldn't stop any of it."

Sam chuckled. He was so damned tired; he didn't care if he was crazy or not anymore. "Didn't you say you aren't Dean?" He didn't let the other answer. "Doesn't matter. I could have saved you. I could have saved one of you. I know it."

"No. Sorry, kiddo. I am. But it just wasn't in the cards."

The laugh that bubbled up in Sam turned into a sob as Dean stood and strolled along the bed. "What am I supposed to do? Dean, help me, please."

Dean shrugged again, looking over his shoulder with a compassionate frown. "Why do you keep asking me questions? I don't have any answers. I told you, I'm not Dean."

Suddenly angry, Sam pounded the arm of the chair, still unable to stand. "First you say you aren't Dean, then you say you are! Why are you even here? Why talk to me at all if you won't help me?"

"I'm _trying_ to help you. I'm telling you to let it all go before it's too late."

"Too late for what?"

Dean shook his head, sadness coloring his pale, moonlit features. "I have to go."

Sam's anger melted into panic. _No. Don't leave. Not again_. "What? Why?"

Stopping at the nightstand, Dean touched the motel room's alarm clock. "'Cause it's time to wake up, Sammy."

The alarm clock blared, shattering the silence of the darkened room and causing Sam to jump out of the bed. He slammed the snooze button with his fist. "Jesus…."

It was eight o'clock. Sam blinked a few times. Reality came into focus slowly as the remnants of the dream faded. The image of Dean gazing at him remorsefully stuck with him when he blinked, though. _Oh, God, I_ am _crazy_….

_I'm telling you to let it go before it's too late_.

Dean's words haunted him. Somehow, Sam knew he was referring to Samuel, to the visions of the future where he went darkside. His dreams were trying to warn him.

It disturbed him. He thought he'd done enough to avoid that future. He'd just barely avoided turning evil when the Yellow-Eyed Demon had trapped him and the other special kids in Cold Oak, and it had ultimately, indirectly cost him his brother's life. He'd heeded the Trickster's warning and tried to keep himself on the straight and narrow after Dean died. It had been hard.

Not blowing his brains all over a motel room wall with one of Dean's guns had been even harder.

After all that, was he _still_ destined to go bad? Was all the pain for nothing? Sam couldn't believe that.

Yet, Bobby wouldn't get off his case about drinking a little to get by, and now, even Dean was telling him he was screwed.

_I can't win. _

Rolling sluggishly out of the bed, Sam cursed, punching the wall as he crossed to the bathroom. _Screw it_. He didn't care about Samuel, Lilith, the Trickster: any of that. He didn't even care which of the universes he'd seen was real.

He was done. Dean was the only thing left that mattered anymore. Saving Dean. Keeping his promise. Victory was so close, he could taste it.

He wouldn't be around long enough to go evil. Dean was getting out of Hell tonight, then Sam was taking his brother and the Impala and disappearing. No more hunting. No more visions. No more death.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When Sam arrived at IHM at ten o'clock, the city repair crew was still working on the side street next to the maintenance building, apparently fighting with a gushing water main. One of the workers glanced at him as he passed, whistling at the Impala but otherwise looking bored. Sam gave them a wide berth, driving behind the campus and parking along the tree line that formed one side of the property.

The Impala squeezed into a small outcropping of trees and shrubs by the road that easily concealed the black bulk of the car. The trees provided cover from the other direction and allowed Sam to approach the open field at the center of the lot—and the disguised devil's trap—undetected.

Despite some floodlights mounted on the surrounding structures, the field was relatively dark. Sam stayed in the trees as long as he could, then sprinted to a shadowy nook behind the administration building. He traveled light, only one duffel bag with weapons and supplies for an exorcism, just in case. He kept a handgun tucked in his pocket, and the Colt was within reach in a side pouch of the bag.

He wasn't expecting too much trouble, but better safe than sorry.

Sam kept low—well, as low as his six-foot-four frame could—and bolted along the shadows, the building at his back. It was dark enough that he managed to make it all the way to the front of the school with relative ease. His luck continued to hold, which surprised him.

From that position, his next moves would force him to leave the shelter of the buildings, but fortune seemed to be with him. A lone, thick oak tree stood over the children's playground, between the school and the church, and it cast long shadows that covered the exact area where he need to go.

Sam was torn over being elated or suspicious; his luck was never _this_ good.

He glanced at his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed since he'd left the car. In the distance, he could hear the water company crew working, their bright lights casting an eerie halo around the maintenance building. None of the workers were visible from that distance, so Sam was fairly sure they wouldn't be a threat.

The church was mostly dark, except for a motion-light over the side door. The cool night breeze moved leaves, causing the light to turn on and off a few times while he scoped out the area in front of him. Another storm was blowing in. The temperature was dropping, and Sam saw occasional flashes of faint lightning high in the clouds.

Rain would make this hunt uncomfortable, but it would also conceal his movements even more. That wouldn't help much at the moment, on the way in, but it might be very useful if he was successful. Sam had no idea what condition Dean might be in if—_when_—Sam rescued him. Any extra cover would be welcome.

Taking one last look around, Sam steeled himself, then dashed into the open, carefully keeping inside the deep shadows of the tree and its gently waving branches. Being out in the open bolstered his sense of urgency. He crossed the 150-yard distance and passed the back of the church, reaching the concrete block that marked the edge of the central field.

It was larger up close, standing about six inches high off the ground, and about ten square feet. What had appeared to be a trapdoor that morning was actually a square, hinged manhole cover, padlocked shut. Sam cut away the caution tape and examined the door.

Even in the darkness, he could see inscriptions in at least two languages lining the rim of the hatch. He recognized some of them: protection spells. The door was iron, and adorned with incantations to keep out spirits and demons. The rusted padlock had similar runes and writing on it. Sam smiled in satisfaction. He'd been right. _Sewer drain, my ass, Father_…. He immediately withdrew the lockpick set from his jacket pocket and went to work.

The tumblers had just shifted into place when Sam heard the ominous sound of a shotgun being cocked behind him.

"Don't move."

Sam froze, frowning. The voice belonged to Father McBride. _A hunter? Like Pastor Jim?_ That explained why Sam had sensed the man was lying about the design of the church. He struggled to keep his voice as casual as possible. "Can I set my lockpick down?"

There was a pause, but no movement behind him.

"Slowly."

Sam set the pick down on the concrete and inched his hands up in surrender. Hopefully, the hunter wouldn't get nervous and blow a hole in his back. He was still a priest, after all. Sam hoped.

"Stand up, keep your hands raised."

Following instructions, Sam stood, leaving his duffel bag on the ground beside the manhole. He turned and found McBride a few feet away, hands steady on the twelve-gauge. Sam wondered if it was loaded with shells or salt. If it was salt, he'd take his chances. "You gonna kill me, Father?"

"If I have to," McBride said tightly. The shotgun didn't waver, but McBride dropped his left hand and flicked a silver flask in Sam's direction.

Sam tried not to step back when the cold water splashed him in the face. "You think I'm possessed?" _Why does everyone throw water in my face?_ Sam thought absurdly, flashing back to the night weeks earlier when Nick and his buddy in the other world had thought he was Samuel.

"I had to be sure. The trap should keep them out, but better safe than sorry."

"I'm not a demon," Sam retorted unnecessarily, shaking the water out of his eyes. The temperature was a little on the chilly side for water games. "I'm a hunter."

"Vandal is more like it," McBride sneered. "Why are you here?"

Sam wasn't sure how much he should reveal about what he knew. The priest was obviously aware about the catacombs, and that they needed to be guarded, but that didn't necessarily mean he had any idea what was down there. "I, uh… I'm looking for my brother." _Sounds vague enough, anyway_. Sam glanced up when he felt a raindrop hit his head. The storm was beginning.

The priest frowned. "Here? Why?"

"That's a long story."

"You're going to have to do better than that."

The rain fell harder, and the cool breeze strengthened into a gust. Things were about to get miserable out in the field.

Sighing, Sam nodded toward the gun. "Look, Father, are you going to shoot me, or can I put my hands down?"

McBride hesitated, then lowered the shotgun fractionally and gestured toward the church. "Empty your pockets. Slowly. Then go inside."

Sam did as he was instructed, dropping his car keys, wallet, handgun, and two knives atop his duffel. McBride kept the weapon trained on his back as they moved silently around to the side door of the church.

They went into the office where they'd talked that morning. McBride ordered Sam to sit, then moved around the desk and settled against a bookcase, only then lowering the shotgun. Neither of them spoke until Sam broke the silence. "You're a hunter." It was fairly obvious at that point.

McBride shook his head. "I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind. Who are you? The truth this time."

"My name is Sam Winchester."

McBride took that in, then blinked. "Winchester. Any relation to John Winchester?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed hesitantly. His father had made a lot of friends during his life as a hunter. A lot of enemies, too. "He was my dad."

"Seems I've heard of you, son," the priest volunteered. "Winchester's boys, Sam and Dean. Good trackers, fighters. Jim Murphy talked about you a few times."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You knew Pastor Jim?" He was surprised but, when he thought about it, he shouldn't have been. There couldn't be that many active clergymen in the hunting profession.

McBride seemed to have a revelation. "Jim was the pastor you mentioned earlier." Sam nodded. "I should have guessed. He was a good man. Went before his time."

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed.

"He wouldn't have talked so highly about people he didn't trust, and I remember he talked a lot about you. Thought you were special, had potential."

Sam repressed a snort. _Yeah, potential for wrecking people's lives_.

McBride cautiously sat down across the desk. "Why are you here, Sam?"

That was a loaded question, and Sam hesitated. He needed the priest's help but was fairly sure the whole truth wouldn't help him much. "I, uh…I think there's something down there, in the catacombs, that can help my brother."

"Dean, right?"

Sam nodded once, hoping he wouldn't be grilled for details but expecting little.

McBride ran a hand over his face wearily. "Son, I don't know what you've heard, but believe me when I tell you there's nothing down there that can help anybody."

The older man sounded certain of that.

Too certain. _Close-minded?_ Sam pressed ahead. "I think there is. It's a book. A very old book. I…have it on pretty good authority that it's hidden somewhere beneath this place." _Heard it from my brother. Not my dead one, but the living one I met in another universe right before demons overran everything._ Sam stopped talking while he was ahead.

The priest narrowed his eyes, becoming visibly suspicious at the mention of the book. "Sam…you said you're trying to help your brother. How, exactly?"

Sam pursed his lips.

"You're asking me to trust you, Sam. You want me to let you go down there, correct?"

Nodding, Sam lowered his gaze to the desk.

"Well then, son, if you want my trust, you have to give me yours. If your brother is in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help. If you don't think it's something that should get around, I can understand that. Most hunters I've met aren't exactly open-minded about most things. But I'm a priest. If you like, I'll treat this whole conversation as a confession. Nothing you say will leave this room—you have my word."

Sam kept his eyes on the desktop. He was down to his last card in this game. There were only two ways to go now: with the priest's help or without.

_I'm telling you to let it go before it's too late_.

"My brother is dead, Father."

McBride blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"My brother traded his life for mine. He died about a year ago."

The older man took that in for a moment, brow furrowing as he pondered Sam's words. "Traded. You mean…with a demon. Dean traded his soul for you."

"He's in Hell, Father," Sam muttered softly. "I have to save him."

The struggle was apparent in McBride's eyes as he gaped at Sam. "Are you—? The book. You think you can use the book to bring Dean back."

Sam met the appalled gaze with a steely one. "I know I can."

"Sam— Son, have you lost your mind?"

_Why does everyone keep saying that?_ Sam's gaze dropped back to the desk. This wasn't going to be easy.

McBride didn't wait for an answer. "That book is dangerous. It should have been destroyed long ago."

Curiosity piqued, Sam frowned. "Then why wasn't it?"

"Orders," the priest admitted tightly. "My predecessor at this church was a hunter as well. He knew why he was stationed here. He showed me the orders, straight from Rome, that anything contained in the catacombs must be preserved and protected…at any cost."

"Father…" Sam pressed ahead. He had the peculiar feeling time was running out, though he didn't know why. "This book, whatever it is, is my last hope. I've studied everything I could get my hands on, but there's nothing out there that can pull someone out. I have to see what's down there. I have to try."

"Sam, I sympathize, I really do, but…no one truly knows what will happen if any spell in that book is used. It hasn't even been opened in two centuries."

"You've seen it?" Sam asked, hoping for more information. All he knew was what had been in his visions.

"The outside, yes," McBride confirmed. "It's sealed for preservation. Sam, if what you believe is true and some spell or black magic contained in that book can retrieve someone from the Pit…we're talking about something that's incredibly dangerous. Who knows what might happen?"

"I have to try," Sam repeated.

"Anything that can bring a person out must open some kind of gateway. Anything could escape. It's too much of a risk."

"This campus is a giant devil's trap," Sam offered. "Anything that escaped would be contained here."

"We can't rely on that. Traps can fail, or be broken. It's a risk no one in their right mind would take."

There was that accusation of insanity again. Sam flailed for an idea, something that might sway the priest's decision. He didn't want to subdue the man; he'd prefer some help. His eyes settled on a small holy water basin near the door leading into the sanctuary. "Hallowed ground."

McBride blinked. "Excuse me?"

"This church was built on hallowed ground, right?"

McBride nodded. "Of course. All churches are."

"The field over the catacombs, does it have a sprinkler system?"

"Yes, it's fed off the water main that circles the grounds. Why, Sam?"

Sam grew excited. _This might actually work_. "Most demons are like spirits—they can't exist on hallowed ground. Only a few can survive passing over it."

"So?"

"So, we can sanctify the water running through the mains and use the sprinklers to spread it over the field. Hallowed ground, Father. Between that and the trap, it should contain anything that might get out when we rescue Dean."

"Now wait a minute," McBride cut in. "You're assuming I'm on board with this. That book, and whatever else might be down there, was locked away for a reason. It wasn't meant to be used."

"But, Father—"

"I'm sorry, Sam. Truly. But I can't let you go through with this."

Before Sam could respond, the sound of a distant explosion reverberated through the room. Against the wall, the faucet of a small wash basin sputtered, before a blast of water erupted from it, blowing the faucet off its base.

McBride was on his feet instantly, heading for the door to find the source of the sound. Sam followed him out into the drizzling rain.

They rounded the corner of the church and saw a plume of steam rising from beyond the maintenance building, and the sounds of shouting from the same direction. A hundred-yard stretch of ground on the far side of the field was torn up as well, steam and water spraying out from ruptured pipes that lead in the direction of the center of the campus.

_The water main must have_— Sam's thoughts halted abruptly. He yelled over the howling steam. "Father, the devil's trap, what's it made of?"

McBride glanced back at him, staring for a moment before something shifted in his expression. "The water mains. A series of iron pipes around the grounds form the circle and the sides of the star. The system is old—they've been replacing pipes along the outside."

Sam's mind was racing. It settled on the city worker he'd passed on the way there. The only man in the group who had turned and made eye contact…. "I think a demon is trying to get in here."

McBride's eyes widened. "No, it's— Were you followed here?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't think so. Father, is there anyone else here? Any other hunters?"

"There are two junior priests, Father Francis and Father Gunston. They live in the rectory with me. But only Gunston is a hunter, and he's not very experienced."

"Go get him and arm yourselves. We need to make sure no one gets in here. Go, I'll catch up."

The priest grabbed his arm as Sam started to move off. "Where are you going?"

Sam pointed over the man's shoulder. "My weapons. I left them in the field."

McBride eyed him suspiciously.

Sam put on his most earnest face. "Father, look, I know you don't trust me, but we've got bigger problems now. If there is a demon or demons out there trying to get in, you better believe we can't let them."

"All right," the older man relented. "I'll get Gunston and head over. Back us up."

Sam nodded and they parted company. McBride ran for the rectory; Sam raced toward his duffel bag. On the way, he considered the priest's offer of confidentiality. Sam might be needing the Confessional Seal after all; he was pretty sure lying to a priest was a sin.

His duffel was right where he'd left it. Gathering his belongings and the damp bag, Sam cast a look over his shoulder. Alone, he turned back to the iron trapdoor. The padlock was already picked. Sam undid the lock and lifted the door.

There was no light from below, but he could make out the steep, rough-hewn stairs leading into the abysmal darkness below. Sam pulled out a flashlight and started down.

He didn't look back.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Dark didn't begin to describe the catacombs. Even with the flashlight, Sam had trouble seeing more than a few feet down the tunnel. His luck continued to hold, though. Along the wall on his right was a line of torches. He used his lighter to ignite one, then used the torch to light the others as he walked. _Right out of the movies. Dean would love this place. _

The desire to move fast warred with Sam's lack of knowledge about the passages. He had only an image of a room to go by, and he couldn't be sure the one he'd seen Dean appearing in would be the same location the book was kept. So far, the tunnel had not branched off, so he was probably moving in the right direction.

For the moment.

Sam counted steps, trying to memorize the layout as he went. It wouldn't do anyone much good if he freed Dean but couldn't get out afterward.

As he travelled deeper, his uneasiness grew. The tunnel was cramped, barely four feet across. Wooden supports shrank even that space. The ceiling was relatively high however, almost eight feet. It allowed Sam to hold the torch higher in front of him.

The warm, dry air troubled him more. As he descended, he felt a weak but steady breeze, something else right out of the movies. Sam eyed the waving cobwebs with apprehension. The atmosphere of the place grew creepier with each step. The more rational parts of his mind reassured him it was nothing paranormal moving the air, but rather the result of another entrance or air vent somewhere ahead. Sam had left the trapdoor open when he'd entered, and a wind tunnel had formed.

And that was the disturbing part. From what Sam had seen of the campus, there shouldn't have _been_ another entrance. An air vent maybe, but…

Sam slowed, going over the aboveground layout in his head. If there was an entrance somewhere in front of him, it might be in the direction of the maintenance building, where he'd seen the exploded water mains. And that mean he might not be alone down there.

He silently dropped the flashlight into the pocket of his duffel and grabbed the Colt. A flask of holy water went into his jacket pocket. Then Sam resumed his trek, eyes scanning the gloom.

About two hundred feet from the entrance, the tunnel ended in a wooden A-frame, and opened into a roughly circular cavern about fifty feet across. The light from Sam's torch just barely illuminated the dark stones of the far wall. He moved cautiously toward the center of the room, trying to get a better sense of the area. It bore a strong resemblance to the room in his vision. Too strong for Sam's taste. True, he'd seen Dean return right about where he was standing, but he'd also seen himself being mutilated by someone. Not exactly a pleasant memory.

There were three more tunnels, similar to the one he'd just left, branching off from the room. Each was so dark, they appeared to be mere holes in the walls. One was off to his left, a stiff breeze coming from that direction, so he assumed that led to a way out.

To Sam's right lay the other two tunnels. There were few visible differences between them. Huffing a quiet sigh, Sam chose the first door. _Might as well start somewhere_.

Keeping the Colt in front of him, Sam inched through the opening, brushing cobwebs away from his face with his arm and keeping his back to one dank wall. The tunnel was much like the first, but instead of a straight, descending path, it curved to the right. Sam decided against lighting the torches that lined the walls there, figuring it would be best to announce his presence as little as possible. The torch in his hand was enough of a risk.

Seventy feet in, the tunnel came to an end with two openings, one to each side. He resisted the paranoid urge to double-check the Colt's cylinder, knowing he'd loaded all six rounds back at the motel. A six-foot-four man carrying a torch in the dark was an easy target though, so Sam sank into a crouch and crab-walked to the edge of the right entrance, Colt ready and torch held back behind him.

From there, he could see into the shadows a little clearer. The opposite entrance on the left was merely an alcove, two or three feet deep. There was no threat from that direction, but it did attract Sam's attention. It had to have been built that way for a reason.

First things first, however. Sam eased up against one of the wooden beams marking the door behind him, keeping the torch out of sight. He glanced over his shoulder, peeking into the pitch-black opening. He whipped his head back, knowing he might be silhouetted in the flickering light, but nothing stirred in the chamber.

Sam moved quickly, swinging the torch around into the opening, following with the Colt aimed in front. Still nothing. He almost wished something would show up. Searching through the murk was nerve-racking.

The room was roughly ten by ten, with shelves carved into the walls and a small wooden table off to one side. The remains of something resembling a chair littered the floor, and the table didn't look long from joining the rubble. The shelves were littered with gold ornaments, mostly religious icons and decorations. Nothing of much interest.

Sam turned back to the doorway and headed for the alcove. There was an empty bracket for a light just inside. Placing his torch into it, he could examine the carved-out recess more easily. A square opening had been cut into one of the larger stones, ringed with protection runes and Latin inscriptions. Glancing down, Sam realized that he was standing in a magic circle, similar to a devil's trap but much more elaborate.

His heart pounded. _This has to be it_. Sam cleared away some thick spider webs and pulled out his flashlight to search inside. The light fell on a large, rotting curse box, much like the ones he and Dean had found in their dad's storage unit two years earlier, only larger. Glancing around first to be sure he was still alone, Sam turned and checked the opening again. No obvious booby traps, but that meant little.

Momentarily reeling in his eagerness, Sam decided prudence was the better part of valor. He reached into his duffel and withdrew a crowbar he'd packed in case the trapdoor outside had been harder to open than it was. Using the iron bar, he reached in and hooked the curse box.

He was glad he did. The box moved a few inches forward, then four silver spikes shot down from hidden slots in the stone. They would have impaled Sam's forearms if he'd grabbed the box.

They also barred the box in the hole. Cursing quietly, Sam pulled the crowbar back and examined the half-inch thick silver nails. They were still sharp enough to be lethal, but they rolled loosely in their sockets.

Prying them out with the crowbar took far longer than Sam preferred. He'd lost a good fifteen minutes by the time the last spike came loose. He quickly yanked the box out and placed it on the ground, inside the large protection circle. Sam saw yet more runes and inscriptions on the box, and the lid was sealed with wax stamped with an old church insignia. Holding his breath, Sam chipped the seal off with the crowbar and slowly opened the lid.

Inside lay an ancient tome, just like the one from his vision, easily five inches thick, bound in cracked, brittle leather.

Sam grinned. _Bingo_.

A distant _bang_ echoed down the hallway. Sam snapped around, gaze sweeping the tunnel in the direction he'd come. He saw nothing, but sidled deeper into the alcove just in case. The clang had sounded like the trapdoor he'd entered through being closed.

Someone was in the catacombs with him, either Father McBride or someone else. In any case, things were about to get ugly.

Sam removed the book, then closed the box and slid it quietly back into its hiding place. Repacking his duffel, he tucked the book inside with the flashlight and crowbar, picked up the Colt, and proceeded silently into the hallway. He left the torch behind, backtracking his course from memory. He wanted to slip out unnoticed if at all possible.

The first sign of a problem appeared soon enough. Halfway back to the central cavern, Sam noticed there was light up ahead. Flickering light, like that of torches. _Not good_.

There was no going back; there was no exit behind him. Withdrawing a few feet, Sam unzipped the duffel as quietly as he could and dug out Ruby's demon-killing knife. With it in one hand and the Colt in the other, he felt a little more comfortable with his chances of getting out of the catacombs in one piece. A little.

He had to get away from these demons. The vision had shown demons escaping with Dean, so staying inside the trap was probably the only safe way of performing whatever ritual was inside the book, but he couldn't let it fall into the wrong hands. If necessary, Sam could always slip out and come back with reinforcements later. The book was Dean's only hope, and keeping it was Sam's first priority, despite his need to free Dean.

He took a deep breath. It was time to go, no matter what was waiting beyond the tunnel. Sam crept forward quietly, eyes sharp for any movement.

The light from ahead grew brighter as he approached the A-framed entranceway. He stepped soundlessly through the arch and immediately noticed two things: all the torches lining the walls were now lit, and he was most assuredly no longer alone.

Three men stood looking into the entrance to the second passage, further to Sam's left. He immediately trained the Colt on them and raised Ruby's knife in a defensive pose, stepping a few feet into the room. When he got closer and saw them, Sam hesitated a moment.

"Father?"

The men spun at the sound of his voice. A priest about twenty years younger than Father McBride was standing next to the city worker Sam had seen on the road coming in. Another worker stood behind them. All three had tar-black eyes.

_The junior priest_, Sam realized, studying the clergyman.

"Little Sammy Winchester," Gunston hissed. "A celebrity! Right here in our quiet town."

Demons. Great. So much for his good-luck streak. The explosion outside must have broken the trap.

The city worker sneered. "Howdy, Sam. I've waited a long time to meet you."

Sam shot the sneer right back. "Too bad. I'm a little busy at the moment, so I'll sign an autograph, but then I have to go." He pulled the hammer back on the Colt.

Gunston's face broke into a malevolent grin as he addressed the city worker. "Let me take him, Mullin. I want to taste his blood."

"You learn to talk like that in the movies?" Sam taunted, stepping backward toward the third doorway he'd seen coming in. If they'd closed off the trapdoor from the inside, he might not be able to escape that way, so he'd head for the other exit he suspected was behind him now.

"Where do you think you're going?" a new voice asked from behind.

Sam froze and looked back, bringing the knife up but keeping the Colt trained on the three in front of him. Another city worker, shorter than the others, barred his exit. A thin, bloody gash adorned the man's neck, right over the jugular. Whoever he was, he was already dead.

Sam held his position a few feet out of reach of the newcomer, turning back to Gunston and the city worker the priest had called Mullin. His eyes were drawn to a glistening patch of moisture along the priest's abdomen. Gunston had been gutted.

Guilt washed over Sam. If he'd gone with McBride, the junior priest might have survived. And where was the older priest? Sam pushed the feelings aside; he could regret his mistakes later. His main concern now was living long enough to rescue his brother.

Mullin stepped forward. "We want the book, Sam. Give it to me, and I'll let you leave."

"Yeah, right," Sam replied incredulously.

"It's the truth," Mullin continued. "I have no wish to harm you."

"That's not what your friend in the priest said. Besides, why should I believe you? Lilith wants my head on a stick."

Mullin waved dismissively. "My companion is easily excited, and we don't work for Lilith."

The way he spit the name, Sam almost believed him.

The demon continued, "Azazel chose you, not her. She's an _interloper_. A power-mad fool. She should never have made an enemy of you."

Sam frowned. "You followed Yellow Eyes?"

"That's not what we called him, at least not to his face," Mullin offered pleasantly. "The _book_, Sam."

"Don't think so." Sam shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the demon that still blocked his escape. "I need it for something. Maybe after I'm done." Of course it was a lie. If the demons wanted this book, Sam was convinced it needed to be destroyed. After he rescued Dean. "So, what do you say, Mullin? We got a deal? You let me leave, I'll do what I gotta do, then we can meet and you can have the book," Sam challenged, sounding more confident than he was.

The demon shook his head, smiling. "We don't want you dead, Sam. But we don't need to _kill_ you to get what we want."

With that, Gunston advanced on Sam rapidly. Sam heard a scrape behind him, telling him that their friend was closing in as well.

Sam made his move first. He swung around, left arm extended, and stepped back. His hand arced back and jammed Ruby's knife into the demon's stomach, all the way to the hilt. Even as yellowish energy flashed and crackled across the dying demon's host body, Sam used his momentum to yank the slackening body around and use it as a shield.

As he turned, he leveled the Colt over the dead man's shoulder and fired point-blank, catching Father Gunston in the head. Sam pulled the knife free as the two demons collapsed dead to the ground. But that was as far as he got.

Mullin flicked his hand, and the Colt was ripped from Sam's grasp. It clattered to the floor near the tunnel where Sam had entered. Another flick, and Sam went flying, the duffel falling to the ground where he'd been. Sam careened face-first into the far wall, hitting so hard, it knocked the wind out of him. Ruby's knife fell from his limp hand. Before he could so much as cough, he was in the air again.

He slammed into the opposite wall like the proverbial ton of bricks, seeing stars. He stuck there, shoulders pressed into the stone, not falling to the floor but held by the demon's telekinesis. Sam had to focus to hear what Mullin was saying.

"…have to be like this, boy. It would have been better all around if you'd just cooperated. I would have happily given you what you want."

Sam struggled to raise his head and focus his blurred, crossed eyes on his opponent.

"But," Mullin continued, plucking the heavy book from Sam's bag, "you also need to learn that insolence is an unbecoming trait, even for the Boy King. And it has consequences."

_The Boy King_. The same disparaging nickname Pride had labeled him with when they'd tangled in Nebraska. Sam didn't like it any better now. He would have retorted, but he was still working on drawing a full breath. It felt like he'd cracked a rib or three, not to mention busted his mouth, if the blood pooling along his gums was any indication. He did his best to spit.

Mullin moved to the center of the chamber, eyeing Sam smugly. "So, you want your brother back? Fine."

Sam stared at him in surprise.

Mullin cocked an eyebrow. "You think I didn't know why you were here?"

"Why are…you here?" Sam wheezed, trying to follow the conversation. _Did he say he was bringing Dean back?_ He couldn't trust his hearing.

"Are you kidding?" Mullin chortled. "A book with the mojo to open a temporary devil's gate anywhere you want? That's a _superweapon_ for a stalemated war, Winchester. Not to mention the best way to topple Lilith. Her supporters outnumber us up here, but there are plenty still in Hell that would love a crack at that wench."

Sam was having trouble staying conscious. "How…did you know…it was here?"

With a mischievous glance at the other demon, Mullin walked over and tapped two fingers to Sam's forehead. "I just followed you."

The stone chamber faded, replaced with a rain-soaked, stormy field of debris. Sam stared, astonished, at himself and a war-weary Dean, standing amidst the wreckage of the house beside an eerie blue vortex that sparked and swirled relentlessly, oblivious to the scene around it.

"_Sam?" Dean called. _

_The younger man paused but didn't look back. _

Sam remembered why. He never would have been able to leave if he'd looked back.

"_Yeah?" _

"_Samuel told me once…whatever he found to get me out of Hell, he found it under a cathedral in New York. That's all he said. It isn't much, but maybe that can help you." _

Sam watched himself as he took that in and nodded.

The scene flashed away as lightning cracked across the storm-torn sky.

Sam gasped as the underground chamber faded back into existence. He met Mullin's compassionless gaze in shock. "It was _you_…"

The demon shrugged as if they were discussing the weather. "In my defense, I never expected you to take a trip through my portal, but shit happens, I guess." Mullin let go of Sam's head and strolled back to stand near his silent companion.

Sam stared after him. "Why? Why did you—?"

"This is the part where the evil demon tells the hero his dastardly plot, right? I don't think so. Back to the matter at hand—you deserve your reward for a hunt well done." Mullin tapped the book appreciatively and flipped it open. He scanned the pages until he found what he was looking for, grunting happily. "Here we are."

Holding the book with one hand, Mullin began reciting one of the spells inside. He finished one sentence in some language at least similar to Latin, then paused, snapping his fingers. "Oops. I almost forgot."

He stretched out his free hand, and Ruby's knife flew into it. Mullin turned back and walked over, raising the knife toward Sam's face. The rough-hewn wall dug into his back as Sam tried to draw away, but his body was pinned tight and movement was impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut as the knife came closer.

"Just a little," Mullin whispered mockingly. "Scout's honor. It doesn't require much."

Pain blossomed along the side of Sam's face as the blade slid into the skin above his right eye, spreading down as his attacker drew the knife all the way to his jaw line. It took everything in him to hold back a cry as the dagger split his flesh open. Blood ran freely down his cheek, down onto the knife.

"There," the demon soothed. "Wasn't so bad, was it?" He returned to the center of the room, resuming the chant and holding the knife out so Sam's blood dripped to the floor. A breeze blew up from nowhere, whirling around them as the chanting picked up speed and volume.

The stone walls rumbled, black magic spinning its invisible tendrils throughout the room. Sam watched in part amazement and part horror as the ground beneath them cracked open. He could feel heat blasting up against his legs and chest, making it even harder to breathe.

The incomprehensible chant continued as an abrupt, eerie calm fell over the chamber. Still. Quiet. The calm before the storm.

When the last incantation left Mullin's mouth, chaos ensued. Sulfuric fumes shot out of the cracks, preceding an explosion of fire that blasted straight up, scorching the ceiling. On the tail of the eruption came a torrent of black, roiling smoke. Sam didn't need an explanation for what he was witnessing. He'd seen it before, in Wyoming, when Jake had opened the Gate. Demons of all sorts poured up into the room, circling like a living tornado, vibrating the walls with their unearthly wails.

One column of undulating demons wheeled in a tight turn and headed for the two possessed men. Sam's mouth dropped open when he saw what the clouds carried. _Oh, my God_….

Dean was dumped out at Mullin's feet. He was naked, trembling, drenched in blood, but undeniably real. Sam's attention zeroed in, completely ignoring the demons that raced past him along the wall. Dean's blindly panicked and contorted face was all he could focus on.

"Howdy, Dean," Mullin cooed, kneeling to examine his special delivery.

Dean didn't—or couldn't—answer. Sam saw him beginning to shake more violently, like he was going to fly apart.

Mullin smirked, then motioned to the possessed worker beside him. "Clean him up so Sam can get a better view."

The other man did as he was told, tearing a piece of his sleeve off and roughly wiping away the blood and…whatever else was caked on Dean's face, then callously wrenching Dean's head around so he was facing Sam. Dean whimpered.

Sam gaped, tears blurring his eyes. He'd worked so long for this moment, it almost made him forget the malevolent maelstrom brewing around them. Dean was free.

Dean was finally _free_.

His sibling's eyes were darting around the chamber, unseeing, terrified. But he paused when his eyes caught Sam's. There was no recognition that Sam could discern, but something had caught Dean's attention. His eyes stayed locked with Sam's.

Mullin addressed the airborne demons, speaking in a tongue Sam had never heard before. Whatever was said had an instant reaction. The churning cloud slowed, ceasing its agitation, and formed up, heading for the ceiling. The demons poured into the cracks and seams in the stones, chipping pieces off in their zeal to escape.

Sam struggled to free himself, knowing he couldn't stop the exodus of the demonic horde but feeling the need to _do_ something. The invisible force holding him didn't budge. He was trapped.

With the ceiling looking like it was about to buckle, _trapped_ wasn't something he wanted to be just then.

Turning his attention back to Dean and his captors, Sam saw Mullin crouch behind his brother.

"Thank you, Sam. I couldn't have done it without you. And, to show my gratitude…" Mullin shifted his gaze to Dean then raised Ruby's knife over his head.

"_No!_" Sam screamed, pushing helplessly against the force that held him.

The loud report of a gun rang in Sam's ears. Before he could react, Mullin's hand was falling away, the knife clattering to the ground. Flashes like electricity popped and sizzled along Mullin's forearm where the bullet had struck.

Released from the demon's hold, Sam dropped unceremoniously to the ground, landing in a heap against the wall. The impact rattled his injured ribs, sending shockwaves of pain through his body. Ignoring it and forcing himself to move, Sam crawled forward, trying to reach Dean.

He wrestled his head up as he moved, looking to his right and finding Father McBride with the Colt a few dozen feet away. Another crack filled the room as the priest sent another of the lethal rounds into Mullin's cohort, hitting him in the chest and putting him down.

Mullin shouted in rage, turning toward McBride, but before he could stand, a cacophony of fiendish screams echoed down from the ceiling. Sam followed Mullin's gaze up but couldn't comprehend what was going on. Whatever was happening, apparently the demon understood, and it wasn't happy.

Sam had almost reached his plainly petrified brother, who had huddled into a ball on the ground. Sam's hand snaked out, trying to touch Dean's. "Dean?"

The other man's eyes opened, focusing on Sam's. For a moment, Dean's face was blank, still no sign of recognition, but then his expression shifted. "Sss—"

His brother's attempt to speak went no further. With a howl of rage, Mullin stood and turned on McBride, but the priest already had a bead on him with the Colt. The demon released a guttural curse and spared Sam a brief glance before exiting the city worker's body.

The volcanic plume of black smoke spewed from the possessed man's mouth and eyes, gathered itself, and swept down to the floor. It surrounded Dean, lifting the helpless man's body, yanking him away from Sam and racing for the tunnel behind them. McBride got off one shot, but the bullet went wide, striking the wall uselessly.

Sam watched the scene unravel, appalled. "_Dean!_" He couldn't move. The next thing he saw was McBride, skidding to a stop beside him. Furious roars echoed through the chamber, rattling the roof and causing stones to shake loose. The place was about to come down on their heads.

"We have to go, Sam!" the priest shouted, stuffing the gun into his jacket and pulling Sam up to his feet. The movement sent more agony throbbing through his torso, and Sam's world faded to black before he could do anything more.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Wherever Sam was, it was peaceful. Warm. Soft. Numb. His mouth seemed to be filled with cotton, and his ears, too. He couldn't lift his eyelids, but that was all right. He really didn't want to.

The world seemed to be conspiring against him, though. _Figures_.

A hand touched his forehead, then pried his eyes open and flashed a painfully bright light into them. He tried to swat the offending hands away, but his arms didn't respond. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a muffled groan.

"Wake up, kid."

The words were distant, so faint, Sam could barely make them out. The hands returned, squeezing his shoulder gently.

"Sam…"

It took three tries to get his eyelids open, and he immediately closed them again. The light was too much. Another voice joined the first.

"There. Try now, Sam."

Sam complied with the unfamiliar voice's instructions and opened his eyes again. The light was dimmer now. He blinked, trying to clear the blur.

When his recalcitrant eyes finally settled, he found himself face to face with Bobby. A very close, very angry Bobby. Sam frowned. A glance to his right revealed a stranger wearing a white coat. The stethoscope and pocket full of pens told Sam _Doctor_.

The doctor spoke first. "Sam? Can you hear me? I'm Doctor Pierce."

Sam nodded, eyeing the man carefully.

"I'm going to check you over, all right? It's going to hurt a little, but don't be alarmed."

He wasn't sure how anything painful could pierce the cocoon of warmth and numbness he was enjoying, but Sam didn't argue. He doubted he could have anyway.

The doctor looked him over, working quickly, chattering in soothing tones, describing everything he was doing. Sam ignored him, turning back to Bobby, who was sitting silently, clearly stewing. Anyone who knew him would be looking for some other place to be right then.

Sam certainly was.

The doctor spoke again, wrapping up his examination. "Well, Mister Raimi, you certainly are a lucky man. I don't know many people who come out of cave-ins with so few injuries."

He couldn't hold his tongue at that. Sam coughed a few times to clear his throat. "How— How bad…is it?"

"Shockingly, mostly cuts and bruises. You do have two cracked ribs, however, and one bruised one. No breaks, and it doesn't look like your lungs are in any danger, but I'd like to keep you here under observation for a few days so we can be sure. The more noticeable damage is to your face. We had to stitch the cut, and I'm afraid it will scar, but overall I'd say you were very lucky, Sam. The nurses will bring you some painkillers when you need them." Excusing himself, the doctor left the room.

Sam reviewed everything he'd just heard, turning to Bobby quizzically. "Sam Raimi? I thought I swapped IDs in Syracuse."

The junk dealer didn't reply at first, glancing over his shoulder to be sure they were alone. When he looked back, his face was stony. "I could kick your ass, Sam."

Sam offered a feeble smile. "I think somebody beat you to it."

Bobby's face softened fractionally. "What do you remember?"

That was a challenge. Sam tried to corral his jumbled thoughts into something he could describe. "Uh…the roof collapsed, a priest…there were demons… Dean! Damn it!" Sam struggled to sit up, only to fold backward when his chest erupted in pain.

_So close. Oh, God_…. He'd lost his brother again. The pain of having Dean snatched out from under his nose hurt worse than the injuries. Sam tried again to sit up, only to gasp when his ribs protested the abuse.

Bobby gripped his shoulders to restrain him. "Calm down! The nurses will sedate you."

The threat got Sam's attention. He forced himself to lie back, sliding his left arm protectively over his torso. It took a moment to catch his breath. Sam looked at Bobby urgently. "Dean. A demon has him. They—"

"They're long gone."

Sam looked up at the new voice. "Father McBride?"

McBride stood just inside the door, watching Sam sadly. "In the abused and sore flesh. I'm sorry, Sam. We tried to stop it, but it got away, with your brother, it looks like—and the book. How are you feeling?"

_Like death warmed over_. Sam frowned. He was going to need painkillers soon. None of which was important at that moment. "What happened?"

"The cavern was coming down around our ears," McBride explained. "I got you out, but I was afraid I did more damage jerking you around. I found Mr. Singer's number in your wallet and called him when I got you here."

Sam blinked, trying to remember what had happened in the catacombs. "The demons. Father, did the demons escape?" The last thing he had wanted was to unleash another horde of demons on the Earth. They were still fighting the previous army.

"Trapped," McBride supplied.

"How?"

The priest smiled ruefully. "I took your advice. When it was clear you'd gone down into the catacombs and the demons had broken the devil's trap, I used the sprinkler system to bless most of the ground while Father Gunston tried to hold off the intruders."

Sam winced. "I'm sorry about him, Father. I never would have—"

"I know. I…don't condone your actions, Sam, but…I can forgive you for them." McBride tapped his collar. "It's part of the job description."

"Wait." Sam held up a hand, thinking back to the fight. "Hallowed ground wouldn't have been enough to stop them all, not with the trap broken. How…?"

McBride chuckled. "Remember I mentioned the other priest, Father Francis? He's a rather rabid gardener. He spread salt over the ground while I went down and tried to find you."

"Over that whole field?"

The priest nodded. "Let me tell you, I was never so grateful he browbeat me into paying for that automatic seed spreader for the riding lawn mower. Francis used it to scatter salt over that field in just minutes. Unfortunately, the one carrying your brother got out before he could finish."

"But, the rest are trapped? Underground?"

"Yes. I have no idea how we're going to get in and exorcise them, but…they aren't going anywhere any time soon."

Sam took that in, but his thoughts were already circling back to his brother being taken by Mullin. "We have to find Dean," Sam said, looking back at Bobby.

The older man gave him a chastising look. "Sam, we will. But you have to rest."

"Rest?" Sam looked at the man in disbelief. "What—?"

"Were you listening to the doc before, kid? You're banged up nine ways to Sunday. You can't even sit up." Sam tried to protest, but Bobby silenced him. "We will find him, Sam. I promise. I'm gonna make some calls, round up Ellen and a few others. You're gonna need help if you want to go after him."

McBride excused himself. "Get well, Sam. I hope…I hope you find your brother."

Sam stopped him before he reached the door. "Father?"

"Yes, son?"

"I'm really sorry about Father Gunston. If I'd gone with him—"

"Then the demons would have been able to open that gateway with no one to oppose them. You were where you needed to be, Sam." The priest exited without another word.

Bobby watched Sam for a moment, then stood himself. "I'm gonna make those calls. Stay put this time, would you?"

Sam couldn't meet the other man's eyes. "Bobby…I—"

"Don't say you're sorry, son." The junk dealer looked away with a sad expression. "If I'd listened to you, I coulda been there to help. I'm the one who should apologize to you."

"I was so close, Bobby. Dean was right there—he was _right there_! I almost touched him!" Pounding the bed in frustration, Sam groaned. He could barely move. He had no idea where Mullin had taken his brother. Where would he even start? "What am I gonna do?"

The hunter pursed his lips, a look of certainty on his face. "_We_ are gonna do what you wanted from the beginning. We're gonna go find Dean. Try to sleep some. I'll be back."

Sam nodded reluctantly and watched Bobby leave. He absently reached up and touched the bandages on his cheek and forehead. The wound was just like Samuel's, right down the side of his face.

_I'm telling you to let it all go before it's too late_.

He frowned at the memory of his dream. It was already too late. Dean needed him. Sam needed Dean.

That was all that mattered anymore.

After a few minutes gathering his strength, he pulled himself up on the bed, put on his best poker face, and buzzed the nurse. When the attractive brunette poked her head in the door, Sam smiled at her.

"Hi. When's the soonest I can fill out the AMA papers?"

End Part Two

_A/N - Part 3 will be up probably starting Tuesday, after the holiday. Happy 4__th__ everyone!_


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